by Brandy Purdy
I rushed after him and caught his arm.
“Why did you marry me if I was not good enough for you?” I demanded, hating myself for the way my lips and voice shook and the tears that filled my eyes.
“I haven’t time for this now!” Robert impatiently thrust me from him and headed for the stairs. “Christ’s blood, there’s not a sight on earth or in Heaven or Hell even half so vexing as a woman’s tears!”
And then he was gone. I sank down by the fire, though its warmth paled against the warmth of the embraces I had hoped to enjoy. Part of me wished he had indeed sent a letter; even a curt little short one would not have been so cruel as this brief, brutally blunt meeting. I looked at the purse of coins and the etiquette book he had left on the desk for me, and suddenly I wished he were still standing there and I had the courage to leap up and hurl them both at his head. Tears spilled from my eyes as I realized I could not remember the last time I had heard my husband say, “I love you.” This visit, he had not said one nice thing to me at all.
I tried to lose myself in the flurry of preparations and the ordering and fitting of new gowns, though the very thought of traveling to London filled me with terror. Robert had wanted us to be married there, but I had carried on and cried so that in the end he gave in and let me have my way, though he insisted on making my big country wedding as grand as it could be. I had not been to London since I was a little girl of five, and the noise, stink, and crowds of babbling, shouting, rushing people, so different from anything I had known in the country, so frightened me that I cried and cried, even after the momentary distraction of the jeweler’s shop and the purchase of a pretty yellow songbird in a tiny gilded cage, until Father, fearing that I would make myself sick, cut our visit short and took me home with all haste. I’d not been back since and had no desire to go. Any goods I wanted could easily be sent, and the court held no allure for me; unlike most young girls, I’d never harbored dreams of serving as a lady-in-waiting and far preferred the life of a country chatelaine. But I knew I must do this; I must not disappoint my husband. I must go to London and do him proud and show everyone who thought that he had married beneath him that I was a lady and not a disgrace to the Dudley name.
Mr. Edney, my tailor, came down from London, bringing with him some of the most beautiful fabrics I had ever seen, with his head overflowing with ideas about the gowns he would create for me. There was a bright glossy satin the color of a ripe peach, which he proposed to embroider all over with yellow roses; and a silver-shot brocade of blue gray woven with dainty flowers that he would have his seamstresses accent with seed pearls and tiny diamond and sapphire brilliants; and a new damask of the most delicate flesh color lightly suffused with pink that he called lady’s blush—“not nearly as deep a pink as maiden’s blush,” he explained, holding the two colors up side by side so I could see the difference. And, of course, there would be French hoods, and slippers, fans, stockings, cloaks, and gloves to match each gown. And jewels—Mr. Edney assured me that appropriate gems would be provided to match every gown; he would see to it personally that “each gown and the jewels that go with it are like a marriage made in Heaven!” Then he unfurled a glossy forest green satin already embroidered in thick gold with an elaborate pattern of pinecones and pomegranates, which he envisioned worn over a cloth-of-gold petticoat and matching under-sleeves, and my bare neck hung with emeralds of the deepest, most peerless green. And to contrast with it—“like the moon and the sun,” Mr. Edney said—a gown of pale willow green silk embroidered with silver artichokes that opened over a petticoat of silver. He also brought along a new color to show me; it was called horseflesh, a bronzy brown color with just the faintest undertone of pink, to be tricked out by a kirtle of bold, bright pink, he enthused as he unfurled the fabrics and held them up to show me. “Being such a lover of horses,” he said, “Sir Robert is certain to adore it and you in it! Dare I say it, My Lady? Do not wear this gown if you need to rise early the morning after, else everyone will know by your face that you passed a night with very little sleep, being—dare I say it?—ridden hard and fast.” And, just so I would have something more flamboyant, should the need arise, he designed a gown of peacock blue satin and a vivid green of a hue he called virli with the longest train I had ever worn, the whole of it adorned with peacock feathers and lace all a-sparkle with jet beads and diamond dust, with a headdress of swaying peacock feathers, as well as a mask and a peacock feather fan, just in case I attended a masked ball while in London, as such a dramatic gown would be perfect for it. And, for travel, something more subdued was called for, but elegant nonetheless, and so he outfitted me with a full skirt and flaring jacket of rat gray velvet, with gray pearl buttons and just a hint of silver lace and embroidery, a silver net to contain my hair, and silver-fringed gray leather gloves and matching tasseled ankle boots, and, as the crowning touch, a little round feathered hat with several strands of gray pearls that looped becomingly beneath my chin, though I didn’t like to say, lest it hurt his feelings, that their clacking and swaying was extremely vexing. And, lastly, a trim, gold-buttoned riding habit and feathered hat of brassel red, a shade reminiscent of rust, just in case I should want to ride. The gold buttons Mr. Edney chose for me were heart-shaped, and that made me smile, and there was a gold lovers’ knot clasp set with garnets to hold the spray of tawny speckled feathers on my hat.
Mr. Edney and I always had such fun together; he was such a bubbly, bright, gossipy little man who loved pretty clothes just as much as a woman did. Sometimes, in fact, I seemed to forget that he was indeed a man; it was so easy to talk to and confide in him. With a fringe of gray-peppered dark hair around his bald pate, he looked more like a monk, a short, portly priest one was accustomed to give one’s confession, than one of London’s most avidly sought-after tailors, but his apple cheeks and ready smile chased all illusions of priestly solemnity away. And he was so very kind! And each gown he made was a work of art; he never threw something together like “slap, dash, and it’s done!” He wanted every garment to be perfect in every way for the woman who wore it. One had to only give him an idea, to say one word, like butterflies, and his imagination would take flight, and the results would be as marvelous as a stitched and sewn miracle to behold.
But of all the gowns Mr. Edney ever made for me—and there were a great many—my favorite was by far a sea green and white silk confection of a gown embroidered with silver and gold seashells that reminded me of those precious weeks at Hemsby when Robert and I were newly married; there was even a pattern of scallop shells in the silver and gold lace that trimmed it. And, to further increase my delight, there was also a shell pink petticoat and under-sleeves embroidered with gold cockleshells that I might also wear with it when I liked. The three colors—the sea green, shell pink, and white—complemented each other beautifully. And a jeweler, working closely with Mr. Edney—they seemed to be great friends and in London even shared rooms together above their adjoining shops—provided me with ropes of pearls interspersed with gold cockleshells to wear with it. I was so excited. I had thought my trousseau would be the first and last time I would ever have so many new and beautiful gowns at one time, but these ... they were almost like a second trousseau, and I could not wait for Robert to see me in them!
11
Amy Robsart Dudley
Durham House in the Strand, London
May 1553
I was sick with fear all the way to London. Many times I had to call “Halt!” to the bearers and lean from the litter while Pirto held back my hair while I vomited onto the side of the road or else leapt from the conveyance and ran behind some bushes to hastily hitch up my skirts lest I soil them as the bottom fell out of my stomach.
As we entered the city, I huddled quivering behind the curtains, clinging fearfully to Pirto, who did her best to calm me. I was always supremely conscious of the numerous dangers that lurked outside the curtains, of the noise and the ugly smells, the peddlers shouting out their wares, and the cutpurses, beggars, a
nd bawds who made nightmares fill my head even though I was wide awake in broad daylight.
Through it all Pirto stroked my hair as I lay with my head on her lap, whispering over and over, “It’s all right, love, Pirto’s here; no harm shall come to you.”
As we neared our destination, I sat up and dried my tears as Pirto put right my hair, catching it up in the silver and gray pearl net, and set my hat in place. I peeked nervously out at the world outside the litter’s curtains. I could never understand how anyone could want to live in London. How could they prefer the din, bustle, and stink of the city to the clean, fresh air, blue skies, and green grass that rivaled even the finest emerald of the country? And the wildflowers, bright, living jewels, not hard, glittering gems and the cold, unmelting ice of diamonds that the ladies and gentlemen of the court prized so. I never did see any gem so vivid and vibrant as a daffodil or an amethyst even half so regal a purple as a violet or a pearl as perfect as a snowdrop. Just the thought of them made me homesick. I loved to lie amidst the flowers; I found more comfort there than in any feather bed, perfumed linen sheets, and velvet coverlet. To lie in a bed of flowers was to rest in Mother Nature’s bridal bower.
When I arrived at Durham House, the Dudleys’ stately London town house, prominently situated in the Strand, and walked past the fierce pair of gray stone bears standing upright clutching ragged staves that flanked the front steps, I was a bundle of nerves but loosely bound together. I felt as if the tiniest touch or the barest breeze might make me fall apart; just one breath and I would be like ashes in the wind. I feared the very steps would slip away from beneath my feet as I mounted them, deeming me unworthy to set foot on them. I felt like a cinder-begrimed scullery maid in tattered rags and dirty feet about to walk into a court ball where everyone was in shimmering silks and lustrous satins ablaze with jewels. I knew I did not belong here and that, no matter how hard I tried, I was destined to disappoint those who dwelled inside.
Robert’s favorite sister, Mary, and his mother greeted me coolly but kindly, stiffly embracing me so as not to crush their fine gowns and kissing me on each cheek, though their lips scarcely touched my skin. It left me feeling like a leper, as if they thought the very touch of me could taint them.
Before we could progress any farther, or I could be shown to my room, I beheld an astonishing sight. Two men appeared at the top of the stairs. One was obviously a servant, gray-haired and clad in the Dudley blue livery with an embroidered badge of a bear clutching a ragged staff on his sleeve. The other was a breathtaking young Adonis, aged about seventeen, who glowed like the very sun itself, resplendent in a gold brocade dressing gown with big diamond-centered rosettes on the toes of his golden slippers, his golden hair tied up in curling rags. The servant held a large silver platter of what appeared to be candied figs, syrupy and sweet, generously dusted with sugar crystals.
“You idiot!” the petulant young sun god shrieked, striking the platter from underneath so that, standing below stairs, I suddenly found myself being pelted by a shower of candied figs. “These are candied figs, you fool! My complexion demands the milk of green figs to look its best! And how dare you serve me on silver? I demand the best! I must have gold! Gold for Guildford! Gold!” He stamped his foot down hard upon the servant’s toes. Then he threw back his head and bellowed, “MOTHER!” in a voice so loud and shrill that it pierced my eardrums like a pin until I feared they would go pop!
“Yes, dear!” In a breathless rush Lady Dudley gathered up her skirts and was up the stairs and at his side in a trice, panting and holding her side as though her stays pinched.
I just stood and stared as if I had been stricken dumb as a pair of serving maids silently appeared and knelt to clean up the sticky mess of figs from the floor around me. So this was Guildford, Robert’s youngest and soon-to-be-married brother.
“This man is incompetent!” Guildford jabbed an accusing finger at his servant. “I demand that he be dismissed at once, thrown out into the street without pay. And don’t you dare give him a good reference. I wouldn’t recommend him to serve gruel to condemned prisoners! I want a new valet!”
Turning to the valet with an apologetic smile, Lady Dudley began, “You heard my son, John... .”
“George, ma’am,” the valet corrected. “I believe the man who held this post before me was called John.”
“No, it was Thomas,” Mary called up helpfully. “John was the one before him, right after Mark.”
“I don’t care what his name is!” Guildford snapped. “Where’s Father? I must have a new valet at once—someone who knows how to wait upon a great lord. This man does not even know how to serve a plate of figs correctly!”
“Your father is at court, dear,” Lady Dudley gently explained, lovingly stroking Guildford’s brow as if she were trying to smooth away the mutinous scowl that made him at once seem to be both a beauty and a beast. “The poor King is very ill... .”
Guildford’s face lit up with interest. “If the King dies, can I have his valet?”
“I don’t see why not,” Lady Dudley declared. “I think that is an excellent idea. The man will surely want employment ... but, for now, my darling boy, let us make do as best we can with Michael... .”
“George, ma’am,” the valet corrected.
“All right, Mother.” Guildford heaved a sigh worthy of a martyr. “Well? Don’t just stand there gaping, you nitwit! Get me some figs! Green figs! Then you can squeeze the milk from them and massage my face with it. But first, go draw my bath!” And with those words he spun ’round and stalked away, presumably back to his room.
“Yes, My Lord.” The valet heaved a sigh and followed him like a man on his way to the gallows. “And for your bath, will you be wantin’ the asses’ milk or the crushed strawberries mixed with rosewater?”
“The asses’ milk, you ass!” Guildford screamed as he slammed the door.
“You must excuse Guildford,” Lady Dudley said as she descended the stairs again, “he’s just nervous. He’s always been rather delicate, and he is such a sensitive boy, and he’s never been a bridegroom before. My little golden bird is nervous about flying the nest!”
“Is ... Is ... h-he ... Is he always like that?” I stammered.
“Whatever do you mean?” I was startled to hear my husband’s voice and spun ’round, stumbling over my own feet and nearly falling, to discover him and his father standing behind me. Apparently they had come in whilst I was watching the scene above. “When servants do not perform their duties properly, one must reprimand them. Surely you know that, Amy?”
“My dear daughter-in-law,” the Earl of Warwick, now styled the Duke of Northumberland, began in a tone that made it quite clear that I was not at all dear to him, “are you aware that there are stains on your dress? And is that ... sugar on your shoulders? Robert, you should instruct your wife that this is London, not the country, and she must make every effort not to appear slovenly and unkempt; people notice such things, and they do not forget. Dudleys do not marry slatterns. And Dudley women either born or joined to us by marriage do not appear in public with stains upon their clothes.”
I glanced down at my rat gray velvet traveling dress and saw to my dismay that the brown syrup used to coat the sweet figs had left dribbling stains all down my bodice and skirt like a series of smeared blots and smaller dots.
“I ... I’m s-sorry,” I stammered with tears welling in my eyes. “Y-your s-son ... G-G-Guildford ... the f-figs ... h-he ...” I endeavored to explain, blushing hotly as I felt Robert’s hand fastidiously brushing the sugar crystals from my shoulders and disdainfully plucking a stray fig from the nest of white and gray plumes atop my hat.
“How very thoughtful of Guildford!” the Duke exclaimed, smiling at the thought of his youngest son as he led the way into the parlor. “But, my dear”—he turned anxiously to his wife—“you must instruct Guildford to let the servants serve refreshments to our guests. I know he wants to be a gracious host, but that is what they are here for.”<
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“Yes, dear.” Lady Dudley, always a dutiful wife, obediently nodded. “But you know how Guildford is... .”
“Yes.” The Duke nodded. “He is such a kind, thoughtful, generous boy... .”
Seeing my astonishment—I couldn’t believe my ears—Lady Dudley hastened to explain, “Of course we love all our children, but ... Guildford is the youngest, and we all dote upon him so!”
At that moment, Guildford, still in his gold dressing gown and curling rags, apparently having put off his bath and slathering his face with fig milk for the moment, strode in as grand as an emperor with his much-harassed manservant trailing after him like a royal trainbearer.
“Father, is the King dead yet? I need a new valet! What are you standing there for?” He turned suddenly to his servant, stamping on the poor fellow’s toes again. “I’m hungry; fetch me some figs! Now!”
“Yes, My Lord,” the weary servant sighed, and moments later, as Guildford was busy petitioning his father to have the King’s valet for his own if the King died, the man returned with a gold platter heaped high with green figs.
“Are you trying to make me ill? Are you trying to kill me? Don’t bother to deny it—I know you are!” Guildford rounded furiously on the poor fellow. “I can’t eat these! They’re green! I want candied figs, and I want them now!” And with that he struck the golden platter from below and, once again, figs went flying everywhere.
Before I knew what I was doing, the words were flying out of my mouth. “Are you all blind and deaf or just insane? Guildford is the most hateful, rude, spoiled, obnoxious, and ungrateful boy I have ever seen in my life! I would not talk to a dog the way he does to his manservant! If he were my son, I would wallop him with a broomstick and send him to sleep in the cellar and dine on naught but table scraps until he learned to keep a civil tongue and behave like a gentleman!”